


between your teeth and lips

by kiaronna



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Language Barrier, Languages, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Xenophobia, but there is still skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: The only problem with idolizing and adoring Viktor is that, legally, they'll never be allowed a conversation.When knowing more than one language is taboo, and tensions between foreign nations run high, there's little choice. Yuuri speaks in dance and the twist of his blades over the ice.Also, in English. And...a smattering of Russian, too. But these are Yuuri's secrets. Or, well, they used to be.





	between your teeth and lips

“Beautiful, Yuuri! Once more, from the top!”

The Japanese isn’t unfamiliar—Yuuri has heard all of those words, millions of times, but not like _this_. Not knowing that Viktor Nikiforov is supposed to be the one who means them.

Gliding to a stop, he squints at the translator across the ice.

“Is that really what he said?”

Georgi laughs, tilts his face towards Viktor, who is blinking between both of them, expression soft and curious. The Russian that streams from the translator’s mouth has a place deep inside Yuuri straining—envious. Longing. He wants to speak to Viktor, as wrong as he knows it is.

It’s wrong, it’s wrong. It’s _illegal_. Illegal, and Viktor has sacrificed enough, betrayed his country enough, just by coming here to coach.

When Viktor replies in his native tongue, the only language he’s ever allowed to speak, he never once takes his gaze away from Yuuri. A look with that much spark shouldn’t exist.

But nothing in the world is easy.

“He said,” Georgi interrupts, as Yuuri flexes his jaw and hunches inward, away from beautiful blue eyes, “that he meant every word. He’s not surprised you don’t believe it, though, considering that just ten minutes ago you were a sleepy little piggy, eating up the ice.”

Yuuri’s jaw drops along with his flush. Viktor’s eyes are still on him—Yuuri can’t do this. He can’t be embarrassed and vulnerable in front of someone who holds so much sway over his heart, who has to mock him through a _translator_.

As he turns to run through the program again, feeling his muscles ripple with promising heat, he hears them behind him. The words aren’t meant for his ears—they’re Russian. Of course they’re not meant for him. Nothing is meant for Yuuri.

But as he skates away, the air is peppered with what seem to be little questions. Viktor, his voice low and dulcet—Georgi, answering every curiosity.

Yuuri is the only one who holds all his questions inside. Has been, since Viktor arrived a few days ago.

_Why are you here?_

* * *

 The Silent Serenity treaty hasn’t existed for very long. When first proposed in 1967, it was laughed at by every celebrity and prominent politician.

Preventing people from learning and speaking other languages besides their first, or that of their home country? It would never work.

Then came 1973—and suddenly the politicians were no longer laughing.

 _Separate people and cultures do not merge_ , they decided. _Intimate interaction only breeds war_.

Borders closed. Being a translator became the work of only approved government officials—tensions welled high.

But they were silenced, just like everyone else.

When Yuuri was born, years later, and the Katsukis reported him to the family register, there was no question about what language he would speak. Hasetsu sat, dangling her legs into the dancing sea, once a beauty holding her arms open for weary travelers. Now she had grown old and lonely. Quiet and content with her own company, she sang to herself in the dialect of her people, waiting.

No one ever came. 

So Japanese was all Katsuki Yuuri was ever meant to speak.

But when he was a child, stretching up to play the tips of his fingers along the barre, it was Minako who urged him into position, into attention. Minako, who watched his youthful face light up with every dancing motion, who bent and looked deep into his eyes.

 _“Beau_ , Yuuri,” she’d whispered, and it made his heart sing. “ _Belle_ , Yuuri.”

The words were magic on his lips, and he’d watched them form in the mirror. Forbidden magic.

_Beau, belle. Beaubelle._

At twelve, he saw Viktor Nikiforov on television for the first time. On the ice, he was a dream, speaking to Yuuri with words too precious to be distorted by sound. Viktor was a _feeling_ that Yuuri couldn’t capture, no matter his Japanese vocabulary, or the tidbits of French and English Minako would sneak him.

They showed an interview—the networks saw no harm in airing it. Even without subtitles, without meaning, Viktor was stunning to look at.

And Yuuri did look.

The interview had quite the crowd, almost as bad as the press conference—a girl grabbed at his hair, took the tie for a prize. Viktor’s hair cascaded, sleek and moonlight silver, and he _laughed_.

All those people around him, touching him, consuming him, and Viktor so willing to give all he has.

Viktor, so kind.

_Beau. Belle._

He wants Viktor more than _peace_ or _silence_ or _serenity_ or _politics_. Yuuri wants, and Yuuri wants, and Yuuri—

Yuuri goes to America.

* * *

The first amendment means nothing, when your ears and heart are closed.

Technically, the legislators in the United States can’t prevent the learning or speaking of other languages. But they don’t need to—the people do it for them.

Foreigners and their languages, after all, aren’t to be trusted.

The few immigrants that have already made it form self-sufficient communities, and those that visit keep mostly to themselves.

Yuuri is supposed to just be in Detroit to skate, and go to the Japanese section of the university, but his original coach decides to return to Japan. The Japanese man, set adrift in the United States, refuses to give up—and then there’s Celestino.

The Italian boy Celestino coaches at the rink eyes Yuuri suspiciously. Except--Yuuri is skating alone. Shaking with nerves and flubbing his quads-- it’d be hard to be intimidated. When Celestino first gestures Yuuri over, he’s too expressive and genuine for Yuuri to ignore. What he wants is clear.

He corrects one of Yuuri’s spins, hands nudging at balance and muscles, and from then on, Yuuri continues to skate alone—but the Italian’s eyes are on him.

The Italian boy is hotblooded, and destroys his leg by trying a quad too soon. Thousands of hours in a rink, his blades on the ice as familiar as his feet on earth, and just like that-- done. He'll never skate again, his Italian doctor says.

Yuuri has no coach. Celestino has no skater.

They both still come to the rink.

One day, Celestino points at his skates, is absolutely insistent—they aren’t tight enough. Yuuri tries and tries, but no matter what, Celestino looks displeased, continues his gesturing, until Yuuri gestures right back.

_You do it, then!_

Celestino tests the laces, kneeling with his grey ponytail over his shoulder, eyes calmly intelligent and flickering, occasionally, to the hockey players doing stretches a few meters away. If they knew Yuuri spoke English, if anyone knew… Yuuri wishes—

“English?”

Yuuri’s heart stutters in his chest. But he’s nothing if not brave, and a little foolish, and desperate for a way to Viktor.

“Yes,” he whispers. “A little.” Minako and Mari and even his own mother had, collectively, cobbled him together all that they knew. Even when it made them uncomfortable. Even when it had to be out on the beach, in solitude, rather than in the thin walls and naked atmosphere of the onsen.

“Good,” says Celestino. “I coach you.”

Yuuri was often questioned as to how an official coach that couldn’t communicate with him could be effective.

“A coach doesn’t always need words,” he’d told Morooka once, softly. That was true—on the ice, words tended to get in the way.

But Celestino was his coach in English, too, and that required _so many_ words. And plenty of secrecy.

Yuuri is too good at secrets.

* * *

 

Here is another of Yuuri’s secrets: he comes home to Japan, but his heart is elsewhere.

Viktor and the skater that Yuuri _wants_ to be still exist somewhere, in this world too massive to be comprehended. Yuuri still longs to be closer to both of them.

Videos have a tendency to spread much faster than written news—everyone understands images, after all. But not everyone understands Japanese, or dance, or skating, or the delicate, reverent replication that is Yuuri’s rendition of Stay Close to Me.

Viktor must, because it only takes one witnessing of a viral video for him to know that Yuuri is desperate. One video. One, for Viktor to do the unthinkable.

Viktor is naked before him. An arm arched out, as though he could bridge the yawning chasm between them.

In the corner of the bath, the translator he’s been assigned by the Russian Skating Federation offers him a wry, but tearful smile.

“No need to restrain your joy! He’s come to be your coach.”

* * *

Settled at a table Yuuri used to scribble his homework on, Viktor chatters away eagerly, even though he must be well aware that no one can understand him—except Georgi, who is intent on not doing his job as a translator.

Yuuri remembers him. Years ago, he’d been a skater. Why he had stopped—why he sits here, with all the government credentials necessary to learn other languages, remains a mystery.

“Who is this?” He questions, eyes alighting on Yuuri’s sister. She taps her cigarette and gives him an unimpressed stare. To his credit, he doesn’t back down, just barrels forward into an emotional conversation with Yuuri’s mother.

They end up next to each other at the table, Viktor blinking at him, still making exclamations and comments over his food. Resolutely, Yuuri stares at his hands.

 _You can’t have this_ , he tries to tell himself. _You can’t_.

Viktor is surprisingly warm, for all the paleness of his skin. His hand skirts onto Yuuri’s knee as he leans in, the angle somehow flattering to the curve of his cheekbones.

“Yuuri,” he says, almost _presses_. Names are the one thing that aren’t taboo, the smallest, most sacred admission to the law.

Too many years have been spent imagining his name in Viktor’s mouth—pure magic. A little piece of Yuuri, tucked away inside those shining lips, a part of Viktor like Yuuri never could be.

Yuuri jerks away, shuddering.

The chattering grinds to a halt. Viktor stares, oddly resolute. Is there—is there a flash of _confusion_?

It must be Yuuri, projecting his own battered feelings. The hand that had been on his knee now rests open and innocent on the table. The other is buried in Makkachin’s fur, and Viktor is cooing politely over her.

His mother saves him. She plops down a bowl of katsudon, happy to let food do the legwork that nothing else is allowed to. Viktor eyes it blankly, a tiny smile pasted on his lips.

Yuuri pushes the bowl towards him, takes in a deep breath. Savory, salty pork. Steaming broth.

 _Home_.

Viktor mimics him, and unconsciously Yuuri realized that’s what he’d wanted Viktor to do. At the smell, Viktor’s shoulders seem to relax, and he tugs the bowl towards him, picks up chopsticks.

“ _Vkusno_!” he declares, and Yuuri isn’t supposed to understand, but he _does_.

Delicious.

The blush rushes to his cheeks before he can stop it, his hands gripping uncomfortably at all the extra weight on his legs, his stomach. Viktor is here. Viktor is eating his mother’s cooking, using chopsticks, has gone through paperwork _hell_ from a government that doesn’t understand why he’d want to help out a random Japanese man—all to be sitting here. Next to Yuuri.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“He says it’s delicious, Katsuki-san,” Georgi declares. Completely unnecessary. Yuuri already knows. Yuuri’s mother _definitely_ knows—though not because she speaks a word of Russian.

Hiroko’s hospitality may depend on food, but all Yuuri has to offer are his meager services as a luggage carrier.

 _Surely_ he’s worked off at least a bowl of katsudon, with the amount of times he’s run up and down the hallway with heavy boxes.

“Careful!” Georgi calls as Yuuri stuffs a bag beneath one arm and balances a suitcase on his other, “that’s our makeup!”

Even the physical weight of it all can’t convince Yuuri that they’re here to stay. He thinks of Viktor, returning to his home country, calling goodbye in his sing-song that will be tearfully passed along by his translator. Yuuri will have to haul these boxes back down the stairs, again. Huffing, and shaking, and fearful of what’s to come.

Splaying himself as subtly as he can over a box to catch his breath, being sniffed at curiously by Makkachin, he looks up to find two pairs of blue eyes on him. Georgi is staying in one of the smaller rooms down the hall, and Viktor—well, nothing but the banquet room would do.

He tells Georgi so, a brief apology for the conditions, and all Georgi does is laugh. Almost sly, he murmurs something to Viktor that Yuuri swears is not a pure translation.

_Funny—sign—you—_

He thinks Yuuri’s apology and behavior are funny. It has his chest collapsing, collapsing, until Viktor turns, all confidence. There’s another wink, now, sweeter than in the onsen.

Oh, that’s not fair. They shouldn’t be able to talk about him _in front of him_ and then toss his feelings aside.

But before Yuuri can retreat, Viktor takes a knee. The Russian that flows from his lips now isn’t aimless chattering—he looks at Yuuri, leans in, coaxes his hand from the floor and into Viktor’s own, smooth and warm, expression full of promise that’s heartbreakingly tender, nothing Yuuri has earned—

“He wants to get to know you!”

But the thought of that is even more unbearable than his touch. Something yearned for too desperately, a wound rubbed raw somewhere deep inside.

So Yuuri scrambles, and Yuuri sputters, and Yuuri _runs_.

* * *

 

Running away requires somewhere to _go_. Viktor and his translator live with them now, and there’s no escape.

Yuuri had thought it might be over, after the awkward interaction in the banquet room, but there’s a soft, insistent rapping on his door followed by someone bodily throwing themselves into their knock.

Yuuri’s castle is going to be invaded, and he never stood a chance.

“Give me a minute!” He begs, because these are all his posters of Viktor, and tearing them is out of the question. He peels off the tape as carefully as two impatient, invading Russians will allow.

“No,” Georgi is saying in Russian, but it doesn’t much matter, because the door opens and they tumble in to Yuuri, kneeling, posters clutched to his chest.

“A-ah.”

“I told him you said to wait,” Georgi sighs, “but who would believe Georgi?”

It doesn’t matter. The damage is done—with more awaiting them. Circling the room in a way that’s almost predatory, still dangerous in his curiosity, Viktor observes the room and then comes to land directly in front of him.

 _Posters, I can shove the posters under my_ —

“He wants to know what you’ve got,” Georgi supplies, unhelpfully. Maybe Yuuri can pretend not to understand Japanese, either.

Bowing his head, clutching them tighter, Yuuri barely gets out his reply. “This—this is my room.”

“He knows. Why else do you think he wanted in here?”

“My room,” Yuuri repeats, and then, “my privacy.”

There is a pause. Maybe _privacy_ is not a word that translates well to Russian. They both seem too open, too free.

“If you don’t want us in here,” Georgi says finally, “then we can leave. I’ll tell Viktor.”

_Leave?_

Yuuri would invite Viktor anywhere, would let him into Yuuri’s fragile world to crack it wide open, if it meant he would _stay_.

“Please don’t leave.”

The look on his face must be too open, too raw. Viktor murmurs something, barely audible, and Yuuri loves even the quiet confidence of his voice. Surprisingly gentle, for a man previously so self-absorbed, Georgi smiles and shakes his head.

“Just your room, Katsuki, not Japan.”

Yuuri’s unable to do anything but look to Viktor, who hasn’t even understood this exchange. Confirmation. He just needs confirmation, that even though he’s kneeling before Viktor, arms full of years of worship—that Viktor, untouchable Viktor, won’t leave.

The expression Viktor wears is almost innocent, angelic, head cocked just a little as he gazes down.

This is where they should be. Viktor, on high. Yuuri, pleading.

“Viktor,” comes Georgi’s translation, but it’s as though he’s not there. Slowly, cautiously, Viktor crouches. One hand comes out, waiting, followed by a Cyrillic swirl of breath.

Ah. He wants a poster. Viktor wants to see the evidence of Yuuri’s embarrassment.

“Viktor,” Georgi says a third time, followed by a combination of Russian. Russian, despite what he has heard Americans say, is not a harsh language. These words, though— _serious. Leave. Stop._

Is that what Yuuri’s words would really sound like, in Russian? Is Yuuri clipped and demanding?

Yuuri may never know, because Viktor stands, returns to looking down. His gaze has become steely blue, curiosity compressed and waiting to spring.

They leave, and Yuuri is safe.

Safe, and alone.

* * *

 

Training does not wait. Viktor and Georgi accompany him, biking through the town, at least until Georgi spots someone he apparently must speak with, and wanders away.

They’re left, Viktor’s legs crossed elegantly, turned Yuuri’s way, his cheek pressed to his shoulder. Just watching.

Yuuri would do jumping exercises facing away from him, but it’s strange in the silence. So he jumps, watching Viktor’s raised foot twirl in lazy circles in midair, sakura beginning to dust his shoulders, his lap.

_Why are you here?_

Minako insists it’s a vacation. Or maybe a rebellion. Yuuri isn’t sure—she had muttered quite a lot of theories, ranging from realistic to fantastical. In the end, she’d decided, it didn’t matter: Viktor was here. Viktor was here because of boredom—or, as Minako and some strange blogs insisted, to make a foreign conquest.

He’d use Yuuri, she seemed certain. So it was only fitting that Yuuri use him right back.

This, breeze blowing the sharp, familiar scent of the ocean across them, jumping while Viktor ponders and watches and waits, doesn’t feel like being used.

 _Viktor is kind_.

Viktor may be kind, but he is also apparently prone to boredom. While Yuuri continues to jump, Viktor finally turns his gaze away, tugs his phone from his jacket pocket. There’s an ease in it. Knowing that, through a camera lens, he and Viktor can see the exact same world—through their eyes and ears, maybe they never will.

Viktor snaps three of the sakura, a swaying blush against the sky, and then seems to take a selfie, his camera shoved in Yuuri’s direction while he beams.

Finally, he turns, the false castle looming over the skyline. There’s no doubt in Yuuri’s mind, seeing the light in his eyes. The way, when Yuuri hops down to sit on the bench, legs curled self-consciously beneath him, that he snags at Yuuri’s sleeve. He wants to go see Hasetsu Castle. That ancient ninja house, which overlooks the city.

Yuuri pulls out his phone, Googles the appropriate image. Technology began to stagnate after Silent Serenity, but progress plods along.

 _Ninja_.

The gasp he gets is worth so much more than a silly few letters, typed into a search engine. Yuuri wants it again and again.

But before he can stand, maneuver them to the right path, Viktor taps at his phone. Offers it to Yuuri eagerly.

Yuuri nearly drops it, as though it’s scalding hot. On it, there are two women holding hands—heads tucked together, a private smile on one of their lips.

Trying to shove it back into Viktor’s hands proves futile—the Russian only points, first at Yuuri and then back at the screen. Helplessly, Yuuri tries to give back the phone without having to physically spread Viktor’s palm for it. The idea has him blushing harder. Finally, Viktor does take it back—only to show two more images, clearly the poster of a Russian movie. There are two couples—a man and a woman, and two men, one holding the other up in a way that’s both comical and affectionate.

Yuuri gapes. _What do you want. What do you—_

He has a _drawing app_ out, now. Yuuri watches his idol close out of a childish depiction of a brown poodle (art from a fan? It’s on Viktor’s _phone_ , did he…), biting his plush lip in what Yuuri prays is concentration. With a few flicks of his long finger, the new drawing is done. The plie and sweep of brown hair makes everything embarrassingly obvious.

Couples. Happy, romantic couples. And then… Minako? With a heart?

Yuuri whimpers, waves his hands, shaking his head wildly.

“No,” he protests in Japanese, “no way! Minako is my…”

Gods. He takes Viktor’s phone, and the man nearly trills in delight, peering over his shoulder as Yuuri messily sketches out his own mother. Minako and Hiroko, together.

 _There_ , he thinks, panic seeping from his frame. _There. No more—_

But Viktor has the image of the couples open again. He points at Yuuri.

Suddenly, the question is painfully clear.

“No!” He yelps, “no! No current lover.”

The smile he receives is an odd mixture—slightly smug, but mostly delighted. His long, elegant legs kick, heels tapping the dust of the path.

Viktor Nikiforov is a _gossip_ , Yuuri thinks. Even when he can’t speak a language.

But… a gossip would love ninjas. Yuuri stands, and points, and Viktor snaps from his pleased daze, rocks up onto the balls of his feet. He reaches for Yuuri’s hand, even when Yuuri doesn’t offer it, as though he’s going to get lost. Even when Yuuri tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, instead, Viktor follows him. So close.

Yuuri knows the only one that’s going to lose, and be lost, is him.

* * *

That night, there’s a knock at Yuuri’s door.

Opening it, hand tight on the knob, he expects to see Viktor—bright eyed, beautiful, gaze incomprehensibly warm. Yuuri just also expects the translator. A buffer.

The translator isn’t there.

Viktor chirps something in Russian, takes a step forward. There’s a pillow in his arms—Yuuri has no idea what that means. Maybe the pillow isn’t to Viktor’s standards? It’s not goose feather, or Tempur-pedic, or lavender scented, or whatever they use in Russia—Yuuri can think of a million reasons why Viktor Nikiforov would reject an item so plain, one they’d give to any guest. Eyes planted firmly, deferentially, on the ground, he puts his arms out, expecting the offensive pillow to be deposited into them.

The pillow ends up on the floor. Lulling, smoky floral scent fills his whole mind, offset only by silky warmth beneath his lips, his cheek pressed into the forest-green jinbei of the inn.

Viktor is _hugging him_. Curled around him in the doorway, squeezing even closer, hands stroking up and down Yuuri’s back in a soothing motion that can only make Yuuri’s breath hitch. _Why_? He panics, _why, what—_

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, a low whisper that washes sweetly over his ear, “shut the door.”

And Yuuri understands.

He understands, because Viktor says it in _English_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and any comments you care to leave! I hope you enjoyed this exploration.


End file.
